


Nothing's Wrong When Nothing's True

by enemiestolovers



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, post-season 6
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-13
Updated: 2016-07-13
Packaged: 2018-07-23 17:49:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,870
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7473909
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/enemiestolovers/pseuds/enemiestolovers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When he hears, “He isn’t my brother,” he hears, “He means nothing to me.”</p><p>When she says, “He isn’t my brother,” she means, “I want him.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nothing's Wrong When Nothing's True

Winter may have come, but you wouldn’t know it from looking at Jon Snow. Which Sansa, much as she might try to convince herself otherwise, is definitely doing. Every day around this time he would practice with some of the men in the castle yard, parrying and thrusting and dodging and so forth until either someone managed to tire him out or the cook rang the bell for dinner.

Normally he wore his customary black leather jerkin but today, on the day that Sansa happens to wander by on the second floor landing and give the courtyard overlook more than a passing glance, the practice session had grown so exuberant that even that had proved too stifling for him. He was currently clad only in his trousers, boots, and what looked like a thick layer of dirt and sweat. Sansa squinted a bit, leaning slightly over the railing as swords clanged below. Was that blood on his lip? He turns and her eyes wander, taking in the broad expanse of his back, powerful muscles shifting as he swung his sword to block his opponent’s attack. When had he gotten those? They truly had been little more than children when she last saw him, as much as she may have thought herself a woman grown at the time.

After a final stroke that knocks his opponent to the ground, Jon pauses momentarily, looking up at the landing where she stood. Their eyes meet and he breaks into a grin, throwing her a quick wink before walking off to get some water. She feels a twinge of something somewhere not entirely proper. _He isn’t your brother,_ she reminds herself, suppressing a rush of guilt as she turns away. _You must remember that._

Her mother had never hesitated to remind her of that fact in her youth, but her mother would surely be ashamed if she knew why Sansa was thinking it now. She had always had love for Jon, to some extent, even if Catelyn said he wasn’t truly a member of their family. Loving him in that way had always been a given, something natural but unremarkable.

But in the months past, as she had grown to know him as a man, to see how kind and brave and _good_ he was… just like a knight out of one of the songs she used to believe in so dearly. He was, she knew in her heart, the kind of man her father had meant when he promised to find her someone worthy of her, gentle yet strong. Loving him and thinking she might soon find herself _in_ love with him were two far different matters.  
  
Bran had returned only a fortnight ago from somewhere far beyond the Wall, and after they were both done embracing him he grew grave and told them he needed to discuss something with them, and only them. Jon’s true parentage was a shock to them both, one which neither had entirely processed yet. They had agreed to keep it hidden for the time being, until the wisest course of action became apparent.

Unfortunately, that meant that they were the only three at Winterfell that knew Jon was not, in fact, her bastard half-brother. She hadn’t thought that this would be any sort of liability, until just now, as she moves to leave the landing and comes face to face with Byren Royce, one of Jon’s men.

He grins at her, and it’s uncomfortably like a leer. “Lady Sansa. Enjoying the show, were we?”

“I don’t know what you mean, Ser Royce”

He moves a bit closer. “Oh, I think you do, milady. Your brother’s a very handsome man, that’s plain to see. Though I confess I figured it was a serving wench watching him like that. Imagine my surprise when I saw ‘twas his own sister. Seems the Starks may have more in common with the Lannisters than they’d like to admit-“

“You will hold your tongue ser, if you value it. You know not of what you speak, and you would do well to remember that Lord Snow is _not_ my brother. Though he is your liege lord, a fact I shouldn’t have to remind you of.”

Ser Royce at least has the decency to feign being cowed. “As you say milady. Forgive me, I must be too deep in my cups.” He nods slightly and makes his way down to the courtyard. She notices that Jon is no longer there just as she hears a slight creak off to her right. Instantly she turns her head, only to meet Jon’s eyes, blazing with anger from where he stands farther down the landing. She feels her blood turn to ice.

“How much did you hear?”

His voice is low. “I heard enough.” He strides past her, making for his chamber. “Forgive me, my lady, for disturbing you.”

A swell of panic rises within her. What must he think, when her desire has become so obvious even his own men see it? Barely thinking, she brushes past two servants as they exit the nearest room, hastily mumbling her apologies. She finds herself struggling to keep up as she follows him to his chamber. By the time they arrive she’s nearly out of breath.

“L-Lord Snow, I-“

He glowers. “Oh, ‘Lord Snow’, is it now? Or am I ‘bastard’ to the servants when I’m not around?”

She’s taken aback. “What?”

He pauses at the threshold, letting a beat pass before he seems to make up his mind about something and signals her to enter. It doesn’t escape her notice that he closes the door behind him.

Nor does it escape her notice that he has yet to put his jerkin back on, or even to wash. She has the sudden thought that he’s never looked more like a Wildling than at this very moment, as he begins to pace the room like some sort of caged beast. Perhaps they were right, perhaps he had the Blood of the Dragon after all.

He begins abruptly. “I know you used to tell me as a child, tell me that I wasn’t truly your brother. I always though you were just repeating what you overheard from your mother. But now….” His eyes meet hers and all at once he seems to be that child again. “When you came back here, the way you greeted me, I felt like I actually meant something to you. Do you know how it felt; realizing you’d missed me, that you’d thought of me at all? And when you apologized for how you used to act, I thought- I thought things might be different now. You said you didn’t mean it and-“

She interrupts him, unable to bear any more. “I didn’t, back then I didn’t know-“

“Then why?!” All at once his face crumples. “Why did you say it today? Why did you say it to him? After all we’ve been through, do I not mean as much to you as Bran? Rickon?” his voice falters a bit, “Robb?”

She can’t stand seeing him like this, not because of her. Not because of anything. “Jon you can’t think- it’s not like that. You and them, it isn’t the same.”

She hears him inhale sharply and rushes on. “No, no, that isn’t why I said it to him! He saw me watching… he saw that I… I couldn’t let him think, think that we…”

He raises an eyebrow, and she feels her cheeks grow hot.

“Saw you watching?”

She hesitates. “Yes.”

He moves closer, the firelight glinting off of his eyes. When he speaks, his voice is nearly a growl. “Who were you watching, Sansa?”

Her voice is barely more than a whisper. “You.”

“Surely, my lady,” he says with a note of bitterness, “it is improper for you to watch a man train at all, when he is not close kin.” There’s still hurt in his voice.

“No one else knows that.”

“But you know. Tell me, if I’m not your brother, then what am I?”

Her face somehow manages to get redder. “You’re my, “ she can’t think, can’t breathe, “My...”

“Your _what_ , Sansa?”

“You’re mine.”

 

* * *

 Jon must’ve gone mad.

That’s the only possible explanation because she’s moving towards him, him, standing here half-dressed and filthy.

She closes what little distance remains between them until her hand cups the back of his neck, bringing his head to rest in the crook of her shoulder. “Sansa,” he breathes, intending an apology but finding himself open-mouthed against her throat.

Gods be good, she was his _sister_ \- but no, she had never truly allowed herself to be that, and now by her own admission she was just _his_. Gods be damned.

Her fingers were in his hair and her dress felt too thin against his bare chest and he truly couldn’t help himself, lifting his head so that his stubbled cheek rasped against her own, smoother than he could’ve imagined. He feels her shudder. “Jon,” she whispers, turning her face as she does so he can feel his name on her lips as they graze his lightly.

There’s only so much a man could take.

He moves the fraction of an inch and gently presses his lips to hers, feeling the brief stutter of her surprise before she’s kissing him back, hot and wet and his, only his.

Her hand moves to his back, caked in the dust from the courtyard and the kind of sweat that only comes from a real fight. At first her fingers simply brush against him, feather light, but soon she’s kneading his muscles in a way that’s just this side of painful and sets his blood to boiling. Jon shudders slightly, arching into her touch.

“I’m surprised at you,” he murmurs, reluctantly breaking the kiss to tilt his head back to meet her blue eyes. “You’re usually very concerned about keeping clean. You used to throw a fit if one of the stable lads or pig boys so much as brushed your dress.”

Her eyes darken, and the fingertips he felt on his back turn to nails. “They weren’t you.” She kisses him again, harder this time, and she tastes blood. Once this might have put her off, a reminder that he was no pampered lordling above ‘common’ fights, but now- she takes his bottom lip between her teeth and sucks, and feels him moan into her mouth.

His hands wander, one at the nape of her neck, brushing the soft hairs there, the other stroking the small of her back but moving lower to grasp her ass and pull her tightly against him. She lets out a small gasp when she feels him pressing hotly against her. He meets her eyes again, unsure, and she moves her hips against him, half for her own pleasure, half for reassurance. Sansa hears him stifle a groan, and suddenly finds herself swept up in his arms, being carried across the chamber like a bride on her wedding night.

“Jon,” she breathes, lips quirking as she suppresses a smile, “this isn’t a very _brotherly_ thing to do.”

“It’s a good thing then,” he smirks, glancing at the bed, “that I’m not your brother.”

 

* * *

  

_fin_


End file.
